Chapter Four
Wheezing like an asthmatic, Josh lay where he’d fallen, struggling to get air into his battered lungs. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe and there was a whistling sound in his ears. His mouth was filled with blood and it dribbled from his lips. The pain travelled in waves through his body so that he couldn’t decide which injury hurt the most. This was nothing like the movies where the hero would take a series of body blows and then recover in seconds to win the war. The reality was pain so bad that he could scarcely breathe, never mind get up and walk.
“Are you all right, son?” It was a male voice, close and sounding old. “I’ve called the police. They said they’d call an ambulance. Who were they? Why did they beat you up like that?”
Josh couldn’t answer. He was still battling to get breath into his lungs and without air he couldn’t talk.
“They should be here soon. They said there was a car in the area.”
Josh thought he could hear sirens, or was it the ringing in his ears? The sound grew louder.
“Ah, here it is now,” said the old man’s voice. “That was quick.”
The wail of the siren halted abruptly as a car came to a stop. There was a moment of quiet before a car door opened and someone approached. Through the noise in his ears, Josh heard a male voice with authority say, “Good afternoon, sir, did you report the assault?”
“Yes, officer, there were three of them, hoons all of them. They just got out of the car and started to hit this young fellow here.”
“Did you see the car, sir?” the policeman asked. He was getting closer.
“Yes, it was a black convertible.”
“Did you get the number plate?”
“No, I couldn’t see it from where I was standing.”
Josh felt a hand on his shoulder and he flinched. He seemed to be sore everywhere.
“Hi, son, I’m Constable Tim Woodward. What’s your name?”
“Josh,” he panted. He raised his hand to wipe away the bloodied salvia from his lips and noticed that his hand was trembling.
“Josh who?”
“Josh … Talbot.”
“Do you know the persons who assaulted you?”
“No.” He was able to breath now although not deeply as his ribs couldn’t expand without pain.
“Any description of the car?”
Josh was unable to reply so the old man gave a brief description of the car and the occupants. The policeman used his radio to pass on the details and ordered others in the area to be on the lookout. Josh knew it was useless as Bevan would be long gone.
“Do you live around here, Josh?” the policeman asked, returning to his side.
Shakily, Josh raised his hand to point down the road.
“I think he lives around the corner,” the old man said. “I’ve seen him on my walks.”
“Is that right, Josh?” the policeman asked.
“Yes,” he said as moved slowly to a sitting position. He grimaced at the pain. His eyesight was blurry, but he could make out the figure of the policeman crouched down beside him and the old man standing just behind him. He waited for the nausea to pass.
“There’s an ambulance on its way. Is there anyone you want me to call?”
“Mum.”
“Is she at home?”
“At work.”
“Do you have her number? I can get comms to give her a ring.”
Josh couldn’t remember the number. It was in his head somewhere, but it just wouldn’t come.
“She’s a teacher. Meadowfields Primary.”
“I’ll get them to look it up.”
The policeman stood and spoke into his radio handset, but Josh couldn’t make out the words. He closed his eyes again and leant back against the fence. Time seemed to compact. He could hear voices but couldn’t make out what they were saying. The whooshing in his ears came and went, came back again. The policeman hovered nearby, a vague shape just out of his field of vision.
Another vehicle pulled up. Its engine had a throatier sound. Josh opened his eyes. An ambulance was at the kerb. Two figures got out. One talked to the policeman briefly while the other went to the back of the van.
“Hi, Josh,” said the ambulance man as he knelt beside him. “My name’s Stan. Can you tell me what happened?”
“Beat up.”
Josh felt the man’s hand on his head as he examined the cut on his cheek.
“That might need stitches and your eye’s gonna swell up.”
Josh grunted (he could have told him that!), then winced as the pain in his ribs stabbed through his chest.
“Did you lose consciousness?”
“No.”
“Where does it hurt?”
“Here and here,” Josh said moving his hand over his chest and stomach.
Stan pulled up his school shirt and felt the ribs gently.
“Could have a couple of broken ribs, but you’ll need an X-ray to make sure. We’ll get you to a hospital.”
“No.”
The other ambulance man was coming towards him with the stretcher from the back of the van.
“You’re pretty banged up, mate,” Stan said.
“I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not.”
A car screeched to an abrupt stop behind the ambulance and his mother launched herself out of the driver’s seat, hurtling towards him.
“Josh, they said you’d been attacked!” she said breathlessly. “What happened? I thought you were at home.” She was on her knees beside him now, her hand on her chest, her face creased with worry.
“I went to school,” he told her.
“Is he all right?” she anxiously asked Stan.
“He’s got some injuries I think should be looked at but nothing life threatening. We’re about to load him up and take him to the hospital to be checked out.”
“I’ll follow you there.”
Josh wanted to protest. Here were these adults making decisions for him and all he wanted to do was go home and lie down. He tried to say something, but his mother turned away to speak to the policeman and Stan was talking to his colleague who was standing next to him with the lowered stretcher bed.
After cutting the straps to the backpack to remove it without causing him too much pain, they lifted him gently onto the stretcher and covered him with a blanket, which made him feel idiotic. Then they wheeled him to the back of the ambulance. His mother came round to watch him being loaded in, her face white. He wanted to tell her that he was all right, but being moved around had made him dizzy. He closed his eyes as the rear doors shut.
They arrived back home in the late afternoon. Josh had a big white envelope containing his X-rays and his chest was strapped up tight because of the cracked rib they had found. They’d stitched the cut on his face and a dressing had been applied over it. They’d wanted to keep him in overnight, but he’d insisted on going home. His mother had prescription painkillers in her bag, although they’d given him an injection for the pain at the hospital, which made him feel spaced out.
His father’s car was in the drive and he opened the front door as Josh and his mother approached. Josh stumbled on the doorstep and his father helped him in, supporting him as he walked into the lounge. Josh lowered himself carefully onto the couch and tilted his head back on the headrest. He was stiff and sore and his head swam. He didn’t know whether that was from the knock on the head or the drug they’d given him. His mother said something about needing a drink and left the room. His father sat down beside him on the couch.
“Who was the bastard?”
Josh didn’t say anything.
“The policeman called here. Said he’d be coming round later to get a full statement. Are you going to tell him who they were?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It’ll only make it worse.”
“Worse for who?”
“Me.”
“They’ll do it again?”
“They will if I tell the police.”
“The police can stop them.”
“Yeah, right.”
His father leant forward and rubbed his eyes. “What a prick of a day,” he said almost to himself.
“You should try mine,” Josh said, trying to smile. It hurt. “Where’d you go today? I thought you said it was all finished.”
“I had to tell everyone they didn’t have jobs anymore and that I couldn’t give them their wages as the bank has frozen all the company’s accounts. Then I had to meet with the liquidators. In the middle of the meeting your mother phoned to say you’d been beaten up. It couldn’t have been worse.”
“Not my fault,” Josh protested.
“I know, Josh.”
They sat in silence.
“What happens now?” Josh asked.
“With me or you?”
“With you – us – what happens to us?”
“We’ll be forced to sell the house. I’m not sure how long that’ll take. We’ll have to rely on your mother’s salary for a while so it’s going to be tight. Don’t count on any Christmas presents this year.”
“I don’t care about the presents, Dad. Just don’t sell the bach.”
“There’s not much I can do, Josh. It’s in the bank’s hands now.”
“It’s a bit of a mess.”
“Yes, it is. You as well as me.”